


See me, save me, soothe me

by fireatwill52



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Jimmy is a Little Shit, M/M, Poor Thomas, florist!AU, i am trash, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 11:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11828262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireatwill52/pseuds/fireatwill52
Summary: Modern day florist!au. Thomas is a florist in a small village, and is captivated by Jimmy the first time he sees him. They develop a friendship that grows over a few years, which is helped along into something more by flowers and drinking and not-so-subtle staring. Oh and sexting, but Jimmy has no one to blame for that but himself.





	See me, save me, soothe me

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta's, my IRL friend Heather for being so sweet and supportive of this; tumblr user @starrythomas for his taking on the painstaking effort at fixing my tense issues; and tumblr user @whosthathufflepuff for being my parabatai and for being so invaluable, as ever.
> 
> This fic does contain illusion to suicide, but nothing graphic. I hope that's enough warning, if not please let me know and I will fix the warnings.
> 
> Lastly follow me on tumblr for updates on what fics I'm working on @jean----ralphio

_1\. Lord Grantham for Lady Grantham: Blush pink and white peonies, meaning shame; bashfulness; happy marriage; white and blush pink together specifically mean regret._

Thomas sees him for the first time on a Wednesday at about 4:13 pm. He’s wrapping up a bouquet of soft white and pale pink peonies that Lord Grantham has selected to give to his wife as a surprise, ignoring the man huffing and sighing impatiently on the other side of the counter as he carefully does up the pink ribbon in a neat bow. Haste leads to sloppiness and mistakes, and Thomas is not sloppy and he does not allow himself to make mistakes anymore. Ignoring Grantham, who is now pointedly clearing his throat, he lets his eyes flick briefly to the windows to check on the state of the rain outside and correspondingly tugs the pink paper wrapping higher around the tops of the blooms, when his gaze snaps to a vision on the pavement outside.

A passing jogger has stopped for breath as he waits to cross the road in front of the shop, hands on knees as he bends down, gasping. His red shirt sticks to him, tight enough to show off his musculature in obscene detail. His blond hair is dark with sweat and his tanned skin shines with it. Thomas, already standing with his mouth agape, peonies forgotten in his hands, mind flooding with far too many indecent thoughts – and he’s not even yet taken the opportunity to check out the guy’s ass or legs in his shorts – is fucking _gone_. He doesn’t even get a look at the guy’s face before he straightens and takes off across the road, disappearing down the side street that separates Mrs. Patmore’s tea room from Mr. Moseley’s bookstore.

At Lord Grantham’s impatient “ _Mr. Barrow_ ,” he comes back, reluctantly, to earth. He mumbles an insincere apology to the other man, who finally grabs his flowers and departs grumbling, but leaving £10 over the quoted price on Thomas’ counter. He picks the note up absently and stands there, still stuck in limbo gazing down the side street.

The guy – Thomas couldn’t tell how old he was, but he was younger than him, probably – must be new around the village. Thomas would have noticed him by now if he’d been here overly long, encountered him in the pub of the Bates’ B&B of an evening, if not having the luck to run into him anywhere else.

He potters about his shop for the rest of the afternoon, greeting and helping customers, arranging bouquets and clipping off leaves as required, taking cash and swiping bank cards, completely on autopilot. When 5 p.m. rolls around he flips the closed sign around on the green door and gets to sweeping the floor. When that was finished he peered about, a bit confused, his mind still hazy. He ought to wipe down the surfaces, and move the flowers, displayed in their green buckets, on their trolley tables under the air-con to keep them cool overnight. They could all use fresh water and flower food too.

There was plenty to do but instead he drops back down onto his stool behind his counter, his mind too taken up with blond hair and ridiculous back muscles to do anything other than stare off dazedly into the middle distance for a pathetically long time.

 

_2\. Lady Grantham’s table arrangements for a dinner-party: White and purple hydrangeas meaning gratitude and thanks; white means abundance, bragging; purple means wealth._

The next morning Thomas clatters downstairs from his little studio flat above the shop with an uncharacteristic smile on his face. He arranges the displays to his liking, bright yellow flowers for the windows today to combat the dreadfully grey sky outside, all other trollies placed at strategic angles throughout the little room. Then, seeing that he has ten minutes to spare, he trots across the road to Mrs. Patmore’s for a cup of English Breakfast and an apple danish to go.

He hopes for gossip on the mystery guy, to learn his name at the very least, but all he gets is Mrs. Patmore shrieking over her shoulder at Daisy, who is apparently moping about Alfred, Bates’ chef at the pub, again, and a snappish attitude when she asks Thomas what he wants.

Not wanting to arouse any suspicion by trying to surreptitiously pick her brain he simply orders, pays and retreats back across the road to safety.

He’s not stupid. He knows how to keep his nose clean. He learned the hard way what happens when obvious proclivities are noticed, questions are asked, rumours start, gossip spreads and worlds get ripped apart. When he has moments of weakness he recalls with perfect clarity the feeling of Philip’s hands on him, caressing his skin, touching his lips, sliding through his hair. But the sick feeling of betrayal, fear and heartbreak in his throat that always accompanies the merest implication of that man was a permanent reminder that people could not easily be trusted. He will never offer himself up to be used and discarded, ridiculed and abandoned like that again.

He opens the shop, propping open one door for a moment before deciding against it when the drizzle starts, and tucks himself behind the counter with his laptop open to scroll through his store’s Instagram feed.

The tinkling bell at 11 a.m. announces his first customer of the day, Lady Grantham, who is right on time to collect her order. He smiles at her, genuinely, as he nips out to his little refrigerated back room to collect her purchases – the three tall crystal vases he usually keeps locked in a glass cabinet while on display (her taste is impeccable), filled with the biggest white and purple hydrangea blooms he has.

“Thank you, Thomas, they’re marvellous!” Her lilting voice certainly sounds pleased, though he scans her tone for any hint of a lie – an art he’s as practised at performing as he is at perceiving.

But the mother of his only friend – even after three years in the village, Sybil is still the only one he feels important enough to and safe enough with to call that – doesn’t deserve his cynical treatment, even if she’s unaware of it.

“I appreciate that, your Ladyship.”

“Oh please, call me Cora, honestly, especially after all these years,” she begs, hands clasped earnestly before her.

The sound of the rain beginning to pick up distracts them both as they peer outside. The drizzle has turned to a veritable downpour, with the strong wind tunnelling down High Street causing it to stream past the windows almost horizontally.

“What a miserable day,” Cora sighs.

Thomas hums in vague agreement and sets about ringing her up.

“Oh, who’s that out there running in this weather?” she says suddenly, sounding surprised, and his head shoots up so fast it twinges his neck.

The day is so gloomy and grey that the fast-dampening yellow-blond hair is a bright shock to the system. The jogger, wet through today for an entirely different reason, pauses at the roadside just as he had yesterday, before he seems to think better of it. He spins on his heel and comes bursting through the shop door in a single instant, making the bell above it jingle madly.

“Er. Sorry,” he wipes the rain from his face and peers about his dry sanctuary.

The guy is a stunning collection of pink cheeks, tan skin and blue eyes, beautiful and completely soaking wet from the rain. His white t-shirt has gone see-through and sticks to him almost indecently. It’s wonderful.

“Just trying to get out of the rain. Not going to buy anything, if I’m honest,” the guy says, shrugging a little under Thomas’ gaze.

Thomas is staring. He knows he’s staring. He needs to stop staring. He can’t stop staring.

But at Cora’s gentle, “Thomas, I’m so sorry but I must be getting on,” he finds the presence of mind to mumble, “That’s fine,” at the Greek marble statue on his doorstep, and turns back to the till.

He runs Cora out to her car, holding an umbrella over her head with one of the vases perched in a cardboard box tucked against his chest. Cora, bless her, settles the three arrangements in the front passenger seat and pulls the seat-belt over them. Thomas kind of loves her for that, and ignores the snickering from the doorway behind him.

He rushes back into the dry, warm shop as Cora peels away from the curb. The guy is lingering awkwardly in the centre of the room, peering past Thomas’ shoulder and out at the weather, mouth twisted in distaste.

 _He’s looking at the rain, not at you_ ; Thomas chides himself when his heartbeat picks up at facing that familiar expression of disgust. He slips back behind his counter, suddenly feeling out of place and lost in his own home.

The guy glances over at him then, and holds his gaze. They stare at each other, before the blond looks away, awkward, and glances around the shop again, feigning interest. The rain hammers the green awning outside and lashes at the window. Thomas keeps staring. The guy keeps avoiding his eyes. A droplet of water rolls from his hair down his jaw, and Thomas starts.

He leaps off his chair before he has time to really consider anything, and in no time he’s rattling back down the stairs from his flat clutching a fluffy grey towel and a raincoat. He throws them both in the guy’s direction, cringing when they hit him in the face.

“Doesn’t look like this weather’s going to let up,” he mumbles lamely as the guy frees himself.

“Ta very much… Thomas, was it?” He sounds truly grateful, immediately towelling roughly at his dripping hair, returning it a little more to its yellow-blond shade.

“I don’t live far, obviously,” the guy carries on, emerging from the towel once he’s wiped himself as dry as he can. He throws it back to Thomas and starts shrugging into the jacket and pulling up the hood in preparation for the driving rain.

“I’ll be off; I’ll return this tomorrow, if that’s OK, on my way to work? I’m Jimmy, by the way. I moved here about a week ago, bartender at the Bates’ from tomorrow on!” The bell almost drowns out the last few words – Jimmy waves once through the window and disappears, leaving Thomas still staring with his mouth agape at the empty space he’d filled.

 

_3\. Jimmy for Daisy: pink, orange, yellow and white Gerbera daisies, meaning happiness; specifically the pink meaning high esteem; orange meaning sunshine; yellow meaning cheerfulness; white meaning innocence._

The jacket is returned the next day by a sulky, but dry Jimmy who dawdles in from over the road at about 2 p.m., shooting guilty looks over his shoulder at Mrs. Patmore’s shop.

“Here,” he says distractedly, thrusting it over the counter at Thomas without even looking at him. “Thanks loads, I would have drowned without it.” He finally looks round at Thomas then, rubbing absently at his neck, his expression a little grim and his eyes are so damn blue and Thomas is lost.

“Hey. Hey I just had a thought! Could you whip me up some flowers? Some daisies? In a bouquet, like?”

“Uh. Yes. I’m a florist. So yes. I can. Do that.” God, this boy has him tongue-tied and flustered. Thomas doesn’t _do_ tongue-tied and flustered. He straightens his back, puts on his most suave smile and drawls, “I can give you exactly what you need, just name it.”

“Oh great!” Jimmy’s face lights up. “That would be grand; I need some flowers for a girl.”

“Ah. Of course. And who is the lucky recipient?” Thomas asks, picking up a pen and notepad to start taking notes, hands a little shaky, heart a little sore because of course. Jimmy had been here just a week and already he’d won the heart of some local girl. _Of course_ he’s straight.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jimmy says quickly, looking a little mortified. “She’s just a girl who’s kind of a friend? Anyway, I was a bit too harsh to her, the other day, took a joke too far and ended up upsetting her. So I wanted to apologise…”

“Why daisies?”

“Oh, that’s her name. Daisy. You know her? From the tea room.”

Thomas sighed.

“OK. Well…” He led the way over to his supply of dainty, innocent daisies. “See anything you think she might like?”

Jimmy’s hand shoots out instantly to a white gerbera, pulling it from its fellows. Thomas takes the unmissable opportunity to brush his fingers over the back of his hand when he plucks it from his grasp to hold it for him while Jimmy selects more gerberas – a few more white, lots of yellow, some orange and a scattering of pink. Thomas takes them all as Jimmy chooses his ratios, and quickly arranges them in his hands so none of the same colours are side by side, triumphantly taking and tucking in the last orange when Jimmy turns to look at them.

“What do you think?”

Jimmy’s face splits in a bright grin that Thomas wants to admire forever. Instead he gathers himself and leads the way back to the counter. Jimmy follows looking far more buoyant than when he’d entered, and Thomas rings him up, knocking about £10 off the charge he would have asked of anyone else. Jimmy rocks on his heels, smiling, and bolts over the road as soon as the flowers are wrapped and beribboned in orange.

Thomas watches him go and his longing digs in that much deeper.

 

_4\. Sent by Thomas to Sybil on the occasion of Sybbie’s birth: Gardenias and pink chrysanthemums. Gardenias meaning “You’re lovely”; protection; Chrysanthemums for the birth of a child, meaning platonic devotion; lasting friendship; rest and recovery._

The fourth time Thomas sees him, he’s on the phone to Sybil, paused in his washing of the inside of the shop's bay window.

Sybil’s exhausted and slurring a little after the labour, which makes him press the phone tighter to his ear in concern. But she’s happy and her voice is dreamy in a way he’s never heard, and he can hear her husband Tom chattering away excitedly to someone in the background of the call.

“Thomas, thank you! The flowers came this morning and they are so beautiful, almost as beautiful as she is!” Sybil sounds so blissful down the phone that Thomas actually, genuinely, smiles.

“I’ll come and visit in a few days, when you’ve settled back at home.”

“Yes please! I can’t wait for you to meet her!” Thomas smiles again, fondness warming his chest. He glances out the window absently again, his eyes meeting Jimmy’s, who’s standing right outside watching him through the glass with an odd expression on his face.

Thomas bids his only friend goodbye and good rest and to kiss the baby hello for him, eyes still on Jimmy.

“Who’s that that’s got you smiling all soft-like, then?” Jimmy calls through the glass, eyes crinkling in mirth.

“My best friend, Lord and Lady Grantham’s daughter Sybil. Just had a wee baby girl overnight.”

Jimmy perks up a little at that, smile widening.

“Oh great! An excuse for a piss-up! Come by the pub when you're done for the day, we’ll toast the new arrival!”

He leaves then, strolling away down the street whistling, Thomas’ hammering heartbeat a near perfect match for the rhythm of his steps.

*

Midnight has him stumbling out of the Bates’ a good 7 hours after he entered. Anna smirks as she locks up behind them.

“You get Jimmy home safely, Thomas!”

“I _will_ ,” he replies, petulance feigned. Anna’s one of the few he can bear in this village.

Jimmy is a heavy weight on his right side, head lolling drunkenly on Thomas’ shoulder, humming to himself as they head off down the street. Thomas is a little dizzy too, but he’s kept himself mostly under control. He learned long ago that loose tongues and looser inhibitions didn’t do a man like him any favours, not when his wits weren’t fully about to let him defend himself.

The street is dark and damp, but it’s not raining for once. Thomas realises, as they wend along with Jimmy’s arm tight about his waist, that he has no idea where the younger man lives.

He lets Jimmy guide their stumbling feet – he seems to know what he’s about even if he's giggling under his breath and can’t focus his eyes.

Jimmy calls a halt a few streets away from the main road at a little block of converted mews, fumbling for a key in his pockets, pulling away from Thomas to lean his forehead against the blue door as he searches.

“You’ll be alright here then?” Thomas asks, peering about himself absently because he’s unsure whether he’s standing in the gutter or on the pavement.

“Oh don’t worry ‘bout me, Mr. Barrow,” Jimmy sings. “I'll be dandy.”

He’s grinning at Thomas over his shoulder and Thomas wants so badly to just follow him in to his place and put this attraction between them to bed, literally. Jimmy’s peering at him from under his eyelashes, but his eyes are hazy with alcohol – only with alcohol, Thomas tells himself – so he sure as hell isn’t going to initiate a damn thing when the other guy in this state. He can't tell whether anything is being offered, not for sure, so caution wins, as usual.

He’s been burnt before, badly and often, and somehow he knows he won’t handle the rejection on Jimmy’s face if he makes an unwanted advancement – it was one thing with Edward, who he'd fallen for before he could stop himself, but this is different. This is different because there’s something under the surface with Jimmy that Thomas can’t stop looking at, something beneath the swagger and the tight shirts and the tan and the near-constant talk of girls he’d felt the need to keep up practically the whole evening as they downed pint after shot after pint. There’s a depth to him that he tries to hide beneath bravado and good looks – and Thomas doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t think the reason is a good one. But those moments of silence when their eyes met and things got so intense so fast… or when he’d catch Jimmy staring at his mouth, or Jimmy caught Thomas staring at his… God, he can’t be making this up, can he? It can’t only be in his mind, projected onto Jimmy because that’s what he wants him to feel, all just an illusion?

But Jimmy isn’t openly asking him in and Thomas isn’t fool enough to settle – or risk his heart again – for anything less than a hand written, signed and sealed invitation. So he gives Jimmy a little salute and leaves the swaying boy slumped against his door, focusing on the pools of streetlight that light his way home rather than the sound of the door clicking quietly closed behind him.

 

_5\. Jimmy for Ivy: purple hyacinth with ivy leaves. Ivy symbolises her (he’s not very imaginative); purple hyacinth means sorrow; asking for forgiveness; regret._

Thomas, as ever, is right.

A few days pass since their night of drinking but Thomas is yet to clap eyes on Jimmy. He hasn’t been by the shop once, as far as Thomas knows, not even on one of his runs.

Thomas keeps busy enough, keeps himself distracted as much as he can. He can no longer bear sitting still to sip a cup of tea or smoke a fag or wait behind the counter for customers to come in. He needs to keep moving, so he has been pacing a lot, and fussing with the flowers, and cleaning – both the shop and his flat have never been cleaner. Keeping his hands busy usually keeps his mind occupied also. And that keeps it off Jimmy. Sort of. Not really.

He is absently sorting the hydrangeas according to colour to form a rainbow of white to blue to darker blue to purple to lavender to pink even though he’d long since closed for the day when Jimmy passes by on the opposite side of the street with Ivy, the waitress from the Bates’, on his arm.

Thomas’ gaze flies instantly to the blond’s face, watching as his eyes crinkle in laughter and he trails his free hand through his hair, his voice loud and carrying across the empty dark street. Thomas watches closely, staring as hard as he can, willing for Jimmy to turn his head, to see him, to look in his direction, notice the light on in the shop, notice Thomas there, watching him.

But he doesn’t. Jimmy doesn’t look away from Ivy once, and as he passes the florist by without sparing it a single glance his hand slips down to take hers.

*

A few weeks go by with no Jimmy, not a glimpse, not a whisper, but Thomas isn’t pining, he’s not. He’s not because there was never anything to pine over, there was never anything to the pretty blond boy but a wicked smile, and there sure as hell hadn’t been anything between them, clearly. Thomas had been imagining it after all. The guy was straight as an arrow and Thomas was just a casual acquaintance.

He's not lonely or alone, though, because he visits Sybil and the baby, oh and Tom, on Sundays when the shop is shut. He spends a few hours with them, drinking tea, eating cake, cradling baby Sybbie in his arms and basking in the company of someone who knows him, accepts the dark places of his mind and heart and soul, and still loves him anyway.

They’re an odd pair of friends, the Lord’s daughter – now revolutionary’s wife – and the lonesome, frosty florist, but he’s only ever seen Sybil for what she is – good and kind, hardworking and strong. She in turn had never had any trouble pushing past his coldness, sees through the mask of indifference he keeps in place to hide himself from the world, sees what is underneath his sly remarks and cruel manner. She sees the truth of him more easily than he sees it himself. She gives him acceptance and friendship and peace, and time with her is always a welcome freedom from having to pretend he wasn't an outcast.

Monday through to Saturdays he’s open 9-5, arranging bouquets, table centrepieces and flowers for cake decorations and the like. The shop’s busy enough to keep his rent on the premises and all his bills paid, and village life means not a lot of expensive distractions to waste his savings on. Plus it’s coming up to spring, which is when weddings always begin to pick up, or people just want fresh flowers to brighten their homes and celebrate the end of winter; so work was only going to get more busy.

When he isn’t working he makes a bit of an effort to get out in the village and be vaguely friendly to the other locals. The old life he’d lead – the life that included Philip and his betrayal, Sarah and her worse betrayal, where he’d gotten everything he’d never wanted through spite and guile and malice and lost it all in exactly the same way – had shown him that being defensive and closed off and cold didn’t always mean being safe and it sure as hell didn’t mean happiness.

No.

Stumbling across Sybil, or rather being rushed into the hospital after a beating by a bunch of intolerant homophobic _bastards_ and having her be the nurse who attended him, and forming a real, true friendship with her had thawed out a large part of his heart and demeanour. He was working on making more than just one friend, though, because that was sad even by his miserable standards.

So he pops across the road to Mrs. Patmore’s often, even when he has plenty of tea in at home, because Daisy’s cakes are that bloody good. He likes it there – it’s cheerful and bright, with yellow walls and little sets of white chairs and tables. They wind up commissioning him for fresh flowers to fill the white vases on the tables every few days, so he keeps them well supplied with dainty posies of pink and purple sweet peas, beautifully scented yellow and white freesias or a single red camellia for each.

He likes Mrs. Patmore, with her rough and no-nonsense attitude, and Daisy is sweet and kind, though her self-esteem is far too low. Thomas compliments her baking as much as he can, telling her the lemon custard tarts from last week were perfect and the chocolate praline torte she’s working on is sure to be divine, just to see her perk up and smile. She wasn't used to attention, or positive reinforcement, so he wanted to try and fix that.

He tries to be nice to Mr. Molesley too, even though more than a few minutes with the bumbling but well-meaning man is too much. And his wife Phyllis has been a general acquaintance of Thomas’ for years – Thomas is wary around her, is wary of anyone who knew him before he settled here, but she is non-threatening and welcoming enough to warrant no real distrust.

On his side of the street was the Bates’ B&B with its pub (where he hasn’t had the heart to drink since that night in case he ran into Jimmy, who was clearly avoiding him), as well as the charity shop run by the ever-cheerful Isobel Crawley and William Mason’s grocery store, which his father supplies with fresh produce. A little outside the village is the garage run by Sybil’s husband Tom, and her parents own and operate Downton Abbey, the grand house a few miles away. What they do all day and where their income comes from, Thomas doesn’t know, though he knows they rent out the gardens for weddings, which he often provides flowers for. There was also a small school, and a few other businesses scattered about the side streets – like Matthew Crawley’s law practice, which occupied a converted barn on the road up to the Abbey.

So there is a lot to keep Thomas occupied. No need to think about Jimmy. No need at all, until Jimmy comes rushing into the shop one Thursday afternoon, looking white as a sheet.

“Thomas!”

Thomas nearly pricked himself in surprise on the white rose bush he’s pruning when he turns to see Jimmy damn near sprinting across the shop floor to him.

“Thomas you’ve got to help me!” He skids to a halt in front of him and grasped Thomas’ elbows, eyes desperate.

“Not seen you around in a while,” Thomas notes, his default cold indifference baring its teeth.

“I know, God, it was stupid; I started seeing Ivy, right, from the pub?”

“Right.”

“And I don’t even know, it was only a bit of fun, but I need your help. I did wrong by her.”

“Again? Are there any girls you do right by?” Thomas blurts out before he can stop himself, and they both blush.

“Um. Well.”

“What did you do, exactly? Cause I ain’t seen hide nor hair of you in weeks. You must have been very busy with her to not take one gander down the damn street.”

“I’ve been hiding from _her_ , mostly! I took her out once or twice, I knew she were sweet on me. I didn’t feel the same way – like, not at all – but I lead her on a bit, took advantage… not like that! I didn’t hurt her… but I shouldn’t have done her wrong. Shouldn’t have taken her out at all. Now she’s got the wrong idea and I can barely pull a pint at work without her hanging off me arm!”

“How exactly am I supposed to help with that?” Thomas asks, starting to fold his arms and glower but deciding against it in favour of lighting a cigarette and turning his back to head for the open window.

“Flowers!”

“How will… are the flowers going to dump her for you?”

“No. I’ll give them to her, once I’ve dumped her. To soften the blow, like.”

Thomas just sighs, “God, you’re a bit of a cruel one.”

Jimmy’s mouth turns down at that, but Thomas waves him away to continue his cigarette in turmoil, a bit overwhelmed by Jimmy’s proximity and his sudden re-entry into Thomas’ world after so many weeks gone by. The shop seems too small.

“Just been hiding in your place then?” he asks as Jimmy wanders about the blooms, pointedly sulking.

“Yeah, mostly. Ordered in a lot; so sick of pizza. Just seemed best.”

“Sounds a bit pathetic, if you ask me,” Thomas can’t help his petulance, any more than he can stop his fluttering heartbeat, shaking hands and the overwhelming need to cross the few steps between them and kiss the guilty little smile off Jimmy’s face.

“I know. I’m not proud. Just… Just how I react to things I guess. Run away. Hide.”

“Eat pizza.”

“And that.”

“You could have texted me. Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth. Last I saw you were hanging off your door blind drunk, apart from seeing you in the street with Ivy once.”

“I ought to have texted. I wanted to. You could have come by the bar if you wanted me; I was still working every day.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me,” Thomas responds, before he can stop himself.

Jimmy peers at him quizzically from over the ‘Oranges and Lemons’ roses, their yellow and orange stripes complementing his skin and hair. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you?”

“I… well what was I supposed to think? We get trashed, and then you disappear and don’t talk to me. I thought you must have regretted becoming my friend. If… that’s what we were.”

“What we _are_ ,” Jimmy asserts, coming out from behind the roses and striding over to him. “We are friends. Why wouldn’t we be? None of it was about you.”

“Jimmy,” Thomas sighs and stubs out his cigarette in the ash tray on the sill, sick of it not being out there. “You know I’m gay, don’t you? Because I am, and I’m not ashamed and I’m not going to hide it, not anymore. I spent too long hiding, then even longer trying to change. But did you know? Because I assumed someone had told you, and it freaked you out and that’s why you stopped speaking to me.”

Jimmy has gone very pale, all over again, but Thomas watches him impassively, a little weary, his energy draining fast. His piece has been said.

“I… I didn’t know that, no. I think perhaps… perhaps I _knew_ but I didn’t _know_. Makes sense though, the talking to Anna gave me about not hurting you or she'd run me out of town. I didn’t even think…” He breaks off and stares helplessly at Thomas.

“Is it a problem? If you’d rather not see me after this, tell me now, please. So I can… so I can come to terms.”

“It’s not a problem,” Jimmy murmurs, then pitches his voice louder. “It ain’t a problem to me, God, of course not, don’t think nonsense. Now. Are you going to help me with those flowers or not?”

Thomas can’t help his relieved grin, unconsciously reaching out to squeeze Jimmy’s shoulder before he leads the way to the hyacinths.

“Don’t worry my boy, I know exactly how to do you right.”

 

_6\. Bates for Anna: a single bright purple potted orchid. Orchids mean love and beauty; purple orchids mean admiration; respect; dignity._

The sixth time Thomas sees Jimmy is only a day later. He comes wending in, stretching and yawning at 4p.m., trailing John Bates behind him for some unknown reason.

Thomas puts his mobile down on the counter, Sybil’s text of _Be careful not to let him hurt you. Speaking of hurt, oh my god, pumping breast milk is the WORST_ going unanswered for now.

“Jimmy. Bates,” he greets, before taking a long sip of his tea. “How can I help?”

Jimmy just shrugs and wanders back behind the counter to mess with Thomas’ laptop, “Got any games? I got time to kill before my shift starts.”

Thomas shifts aside to let him slide onto his stool.

“What about you then, Bates? Can I be of use, or do you want to commandeer my electronics as well?”

John looks at him carefully, and Thomas returns his gaze. There is no love lost between them, but Anna is a kind person and John, somehow, in some way God only knew, made her happy.

“I want something for Anna. To brighten up the house a bit.”

Thomas nods and gestures to the single potted orchids that sat along the brick wall to his right, “Something like that perhaps? Will last a heck of a lot longer than a bouquet.”

Bates nods and heads over to peruse, allowing Thomas to finally turn his attention to Jimmy, who has started up a game of solitaire and is now finishing up the last of Thomas’ tea with a twisted mouth.

“Ugh, it’s cold!”

“I know. I’ve been doing this thing called ‘working’, means I don’t quite have a lot of time spare to play games and drink tea. I made that ages ago.”

Bored of the computer already Jimmy jumps up to peer around.

“Where’s your kettle? I’ll get you a fresh brew.”

“You just want one for yourself. My kettle is in my flat, nincompoop, up the stairs.” He gestures to the door tucked behind the counter, next to the refrigerated store room. Before he can say anything more Jimmy is off, footsteps pounding on the stairs, teacup dangling from one finger.

Thomas turns back to find Bates before him, a single bright purple orchid in a terracotta pot in his hands and an unreadable expression on his face.

Secretly pleased at his excellent choice, Thomas starts ringing him up, ignoring the clattering of Jimmy in his kitchen above, who is apparently opening every single one of Thomas’ cupboards and slamming them shut again.

“She’ll like that,” Thomas insists, gesturing to the orchid.

“I know,” is the mild reply, as Bates hands over his cash.

“Beautiful colour.”

“Mmm hmm. Don’t keep Jimmy too long, his shift starts in twenty,” Bates chides as he leaves.

Thomas only lets himself blush once the other man has disappeared down the street, eyes darting back to the door to his flat. Then he locks the shop and heads up the stairs without a second thought.

“Where’s mine, then?” Thomas asks, keeping his voice light as he enters and sees Jimmy sitting cross-legged on the grey and black rug on his living room floor. Jimmy glances around absently at him, sipping at a new cup of tea and rooting through the contents of Thomas’ coffee table.

“I got bored and started being nosy instead.”

Thomas flops down onto his couch and put his feet up on the table, reaching for the newspaper.

“Evidently.”

“Is Bates watching the shop?”

“Nah, I closed up for a few minutes. Wanted a tea break, only there’s no tea.”

“Oh fine,” Jimmy huffs, clambering to his feet and heading to the kitchen counter. “Just because I’m so nice.”

“The nicest. How did the flowers go down with Ivy?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. She hit me over the head with them until the whole lot fell apart. Sorry.”

Thomas snorts, “Why are you saying sorry to me?!”

“They were your flowers,” Jimmy mumbles, returning to the living area with Thomas’ tea, finally.

“You paid for them.”

“No I didn’t, remember? You said I didn’t have to pay because I was so ridiculously pathetic,” Jimmy replies as he settles down again, laughing, on the floor by Thomas’ feet and continues foraging through his magazines.

“You are pathetic,” Thomas mutters back, trying not to get to giddy over how good and right and domestic it feels and God he wants this, he wants this forever, every day, every night, Jimmy here, with him.

But.

He eyes the time on his phone and reality rears its head.

“You best quit nosying and head off. You don’t want to be late – Bates knows where you are and I don’t want him banging on my door, he’ll take the chance to break it if he can.”

Jimmy laughs again then flops back to lie on the floor with a groan, shirt riding up a little. Thomas looks away, not needing the strip of tanned skin to haunt him, thanks very much.

After a few more minutes of grumbling Jimmy heaves himself to his feet and Thomas trails him back down to the shop, unlocking the door and waving him off absently.

His phone buzzes with a text when he slumps down at the counter again, feeling as though he’s been running downhill, exhilarated and exhausted all at once.

_How did I ever cope without you to pull me through my troubles, Mr. Barrow?_

_You probably didn’t cope at all, because you’re useless_. Thomas smirks as his fingers fly over his keypad. _You just got by on luck and good looks, I imagine_.

 _You’re not wrong :p I am incredibly good looking and exceptionally lucky. Pop by after you close up? I’ll give you free shots in return for my ruining your pretty flowers with my face_.

 _Doesn't sound like a fair exchange_.

 _I was never much one for playing fair, personally. You’re just lucky I like you, so this instance is working in your favour_.

Thomas puts his phone down, the delirious smile impossible to keep from his face.

 

_7\. The Dowager Countess of Grantham as a gift for Isobel: orange lilies. Lilies meaning motherhood; drive; regal bearing. Orange lilies specifically mean hatred; disdain._

The doddery old woman who has just tottered in – while Thomas is resting his pounding forehead on the blessedly cold counter – starts complaining before she even properly entered the store.

“Are you the proprietor here? I have a complaint to make about your bell. It’s far too shrill for a room this small!”

Thomas raises exhausted, bleary eyes, swearing internally for how bright the light is through the windows, how loud that voice is and that fucking bell to boot, and also because holy shit that is the Dowager Countess now glaring down at him. He’s heard enough to last a lifetime of never wanting to meet her from Sybil, and now here she is.

“Now, if it’s not too much trouble, I do hope you can rouse yourself to help me. I want orange lilies.”

Thomas springs up with a muttered, “Of course, your ladyship,” before dizziness overwhelms him. He swallows down the nausea and hurries over to the lilies, plucking out a pre-made bouquet of orange while she waits imperiously at the counter.

He returns to her, holding them out for her approval and receives a stiff nod in return. He dutifully takes them behind the counter to prepare, studiously ignoring her mutterings of _why Cora recommended this buffoon is beyond me_ …

“Er, may I just say,” he starts as he lays them down. “You might want to pick something else, Countess. These… These do not have a very nice meaning.”

“I know exactly what they mean, young man. I came for them and I will leave with them.”

“Right you are, certainly, as you say,” he’s not surprised by her, not really.

“Wrap them in that.” She points at the rolls of wrapping paper suspended on the wall behind the counter, indicating the dark red.

“Yes, your ladyship.”

Jimmy comes strolling in then, sees the Countess and dives right back out the door. He scarpers across the road to Mrs. Patmore’s, the traitor, and Thomas scowls when he catches him peering out the window from across the street, with a grin on his face.

He wraps the bouquet quickly but carefully, an orange ribbon seeing it complete, and the Countess totters off with a polite enough thanks, though only after she’s criticised the colour of the walls and the ratio of orange to pink zinnias in their display by the window.

Once she’s long gone Jimmy reappears out the tea-room door and trots back across the street.

“You can’t be mad,” he insists, as he flings the door open and launches himself practically onto Thomas’ counter. “I brought you tea and one of Daisy’s fresh tarts. It’s got strawberries on it.”

He waves the paper bag in Thomas’ face.

“You’re still a horrid traitor,” Thomas mutters, grabbing for the tea first.

“You can’t blame me! She’s terrifying.”

“She is indeed.” God this boy makes him smile so easily. “She wanted orange lilies too.”

“What does that mean?” Jimmy asks, taking a long gulp of his coffee. Thomas stares at his throat as he swallows, a little transfixed, until the question properly pervades.

“Uh. Hatred, mostly.”

“God! Who was she giving them to?”

“Didn’t say.”

Jimmy huffs disapprovingly at Thomas’ failure to procure any gossip and takes to wandering about the store.

“Haven’t you got tired of looking at all the flowers yet?” Thomas asks as he realises with a start that he hasn’t finished adding the Countess’ money to the till.

He glances up to find Jimmy bent over some yellow and purple pansies, examining them closely.

“Nah, it’s all quite nice. Soothing like, all these flowers.”

“Glad you think so,” Thomas murmurs, eyes transfixed on Jimmy’s ass in his jeans.

 _Look away_ , he chides himself. _Look away before he sees, look away look away you really really really totally absolutely need to look away_ …

Thomas wrenches his gaze back to the register with a yelp when the drawer opens and smashes into his bad hand. Jimmy’s at his side in an instant, reaching for it.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Thomas mutters, suddenly cold. “It’s been through worse.”

“I’ve been wanting to ask,” Jimmy’s fingertip traces the scar down the side of his hand. Thomas didn’t have a hope in hell of suppressing his shiver.

“War. Got shot.”

“God. You’re brave,” Jimmy murmurs, fingers gently tracing over the long-healed wounds.

“No. No I’m not.” This was too much. Can’t he just go back to staring at Jimmy’s ass in peace?

Jimmy looks up at him then, blue eyes serious for once, not a hint of laughter or mockery and it would be nothing at all just to lean down a little and kiss him, nothing at all. Thomas sways a little, unsteady and wanting, unable to pretend he’s not affected anymore, unable to pretend this ‘just friends’ shtick is working, unable to pretend he doesn’t want to just throw Jimmy down and have him right there on the floor, forever.

He’s leaning down before he can stop himself and Jimmy’s arms are wrapping around him, oh god, wrapping around his shoulders, one hand stroking down his back and oh shit yes it isn’t a dream, it’s happening, it’s… it’s a hug. Jimmy presses his face into Thomas’ neck and pulls Thomas head down onto his shoulder, hands rubbing his back.

Thomas sighs out all his pent up feelings and just goes with it, revelling in the sensation of the boy in his arms, fingertips stroking his back through his shirt, the scent of his throat where Thomas’ forehead is resting. He closes his eyes and lets himself go for a long moment. His own arms wind around Jimmy’s waist to keep them balanced, his every awareness centred on the feeling of Jimmy’s cheek against his temple. When they pull apart he lets his lips take the tiniest taste of his neck, and then sternly tells himself to get it together.

Jimmy’s hand lingers on his shoulder blades. “Better?”

“Infinitely. Thank you.”

“Good.” That bright smile will kill him one day. Jimmy squeezes his shoulder once more and Thomas can’t stop himself, can’t help it, he catches Jimmy’s hand as he pulls away and clutches at it.

“Thank you. Truly.”

Jimmy’s smile goes a little fixed then, eyes a little wide, so Thomas lets go straight away and backs off.

“What was in this tart, did you say?”

“Strawberries. I best be off. Got a few errands to take care of before work.”

“Bye then, thanks.” Thomas keeps his tone distracted as Jimmy waves once and departs, hands freeing his probably melted tart from the paper bag. Once Jimmy’s out the door he lets out a long breath.

 _No more stuff ups. No more taking what he doesn’t want to give_ , he tells himself, hoping to God he can stick with it, already knowing that he can’t.

 

_8\. Edith for herself: Marigolds meaning despair; creativity; desire to succeed; jealousy._

Thomas is absurdly busy over spring and summer, when the usual constants of birthdays, funerals and births are supplemented by a seasonal insurgence in weddings, fairs, galas and marriage proposals. Jimmy remains a constant bright spot in his life, offering a laugh, alcohol and good company whenever needed. He even sits up with Thomas all night to do the centrepieces for Mary and Matthew’s wedding, and delivers the boutonnieres to the mildly frantic groom himself the next morning.

Thomas tries to do the same for Jimmy, to give him guidance when he gets in over his head with a bird or falls into trouble over unpaid bills or pisses off the wrong guy in the bar. He tries to be chipper, to keep things light and relaxed between them, to fight his constant urges to reach out and touch and hold and love, like he so badly wants to.

Summer is winding down when Edith Crawley who ran the county newspaper from her offices a few streets away, comes into the shop. Thomas has the windows wide open, as well as the door, and fans pointed at the flowers, which are wilting in the midday heat.

“I thought I could do with some cheering up,” she says by way of greeting as she approaches the counter. “Maybe something to brighten up my office a bit?”

She sounds miserable and does not meet his eyes. Taking pity, though he would not admit he was capable of it were anyone to ask, he selects several blooms of marigolds for her approval, some wine-red with sunset orange borders, some sunshine orange and sunny yellow – “They’re lovely, I adore marigolds!” – and sets about wrapping them in cheerful bright yellow paper.

He sends her off smiling, which makes him feel curiously happy, as Jimmy jogs by. He only lifts a hand in a wave, his shirt practically glued to his chest, before crossing the street on his usual route that Thomas now knew took him on a wide loop around the village, through the woods and back into the village from the south.

Sighing absently, hating the heat, he pulls out his phone to call Sybil, still his best if no longer only friend.

“God it’s so hot,” she wails. “Sybbie can’t keep cool and Tom says he’s surprised the heat isn't melting the tar on the roads!”

“It’s certainly awful. Jimmy’s out running in it too.”

“Ugh is he mad?!”

“I reckon so.”

“Well, I ought to be grateful, I suppose. At least it means this baby will be born in autumn; at least I’m not nine months pregnant right now, God, can you imagine?”

Thomas almost drops the phone. “You’re pregnant again?”

“Yes!”

He crows in delight, running an absent hand through his hair. “I’m so happy for you, for all three of you!”

“Four of us!” She laughs, so giddy with happiness and he laughs back unable to help himself, hoping beyond hope that this bright, beautiful news can carry him out of the melancholy that Jimmy’s not stopping in to say hello had caused and herald more good news in its wake.

*

He meets Tom and Matthew in the pub for a celebratory drink that evening, with William Mason joining them, as well as, to everyone’s surprise, Lord Grantham himself. It’s a little awkward but Thomas tries to be jovial and chatty.

Jimmy insists they start with whisky, leaning on the bar and grinning at Thomas as he downs his, before Anna demands they have champagne to celebrate.

Thomas chides her teasingly that men don’t drink champagne, Anna, men drink beer, and Anna laughs as she reminds him of the bright pink and blue shots of God knows what he and Jimmy had been downing just last week. In between the roaring, merry laughter, and William slapping him good naturedly on the back, Thomas catches Jimmy watching him, smiling an odd little smile, before Jimmy looks away.

He doesn’t see much of Jimmy after that, he seems too busy at the bar; Thomas is busy himself anyway. He spends a large portion of the evening engrossed in an increasingly drunken conversation with Lord Grantham about dogs, before Carson appears out of nowhere and spirits the Lord away. Tom disappears too, begging off the parting shot Jimmy pours him, claiming he’s got to get back to his three girls.

Thomas stays, chatting and laughing with Matthew and William, revelling in how surprisingly relaxed and easy it all feels.

Matthew talks near constantly about Mary, and Thomas doesn’t blame him – he likes Lady Mary, though some find her mean or cruel or heartless. He doesn’t know her well, but he knows enough to see a mirror of himself in her composure, her cold pre-disposition. He likes her for that, and for her unnerving drive and determination.

William talks too, about Daisy, who he’s been mad for since forever.

“What should I do, do you reckon, to make her love me back?” he asks Thomas miserably as he pouts into his beer. “How do you make a girl love you?”

“I wouldn’t know mate, I’m gay,” Thomas says without thinking before he freezes.

“Oh really?” Matthew asks.

“Uh. Yes. Yeah.”

“Huh. Anyway. Daisy. Flowers, should I give her flowers?”

“Er, for the sake of my business, yes,” Thomas says, before carrying on. “Wait, it’s not a problem to you guys? That I'm gay?”

“No. Why?”

“Why would it be?”

They seem concerned about his concern, watching him with furrowed brows.

“Just… past experiences haven’t gone quite so smoothly,” he mutters, but Matthew waves a hand.

“It’s no problem to us, nor should it be to many in the village, I imagine, Thomas. If you ever have any trouble over it, come to me. I won’t stand for intolerance or unhappiness taking place right under my nose. Don’t ever feel you have to hide.”

“If that’s how you feel, what about my unhappiness,” William sulks to Matthew. “What about my unhappiness about Daisy!”

“That’s so not the same thing.”

“Try asters. Come in nice pinks and purples. They mean patience, to symbolise you’ll wait as long as she wants, in order to be with her,” Thomas tells him, as Jimmy taps his shoulder and gestures at the time.

“Asters,” William’s whole face lights up as Matthew rushes off to settle the bill before they realise he's paying the whole tab.

“William, you do know flowers can’t just make her fall in love with you, right?” Thomas asks, feeling a little concerned as they trail Matthew outside. He waves goodbye to Jimmy over his shoulder, who’s watching him go with his lips pursed. “I need to know you understand that, because I’m a little worried right now that you don’t.”

Matthew’s laughter rings in his ears even as William wails at him and he bids them goodbye to stumble home down the street, grinning. He’s quite drunk, but tomorrow is Sunday so it’s ok. The path beneath him is a little fuzzy but the person he’s leaning on is warm… oh.

Jimmy has somehow appeared and instigated himself under Thomas’ arm.

“When did you get here?”

“I followed you out, you’re blotted. Wanted to make sure you get home safe.”

“S’only 50 metres up the road, silly boy,” Thomas chides him, taking the opportunity to run a hand through his blond hair.

“Even so,” Jimmy insists, although they’ve reached Thomas’ door. He yawns widely as he fishes out his key. Jimmy takes it from him and helps him inside, locks up behind him and takes his hand to tow him upstairs.

He makes Thomas drink two glasses of water and take Panadol before shoving Thomas into his bathroom with strict orders to shower.

Thomas manages to not throw up while he’s in there, even though it takes him a while to realise the spray is ice cold because he hasn’t turned the hot tap on. The alcohol has him feeling dizzy and numb, but the hot water clears his head a bit. He totters out in just his pants awhile later, forgetting Jimmy entirely until he finds him sprawled on his bed and stops dead.

“Who’s the drunk one here, me or you?” Thomas teases before slowly edging to the bed and sliding under the covers.

Jimmy grumbles sleepily in response, before rolling over a little to let Thomas have some proper room.

“I’m only resting my eyes for a mo’ before I hit the road,” Jimmy sighs.

“Hit the road? You mean walk the hundred metres to your door?”

“Yeah exactly,” Jimmy replies, stealing Thomas’ pillow and nestling down into it.

Thomas doesn’t know who falls asleep first, only that he wakes up at dawn alone except for a splitting headache, not entirely sure it wasn’t all a dream.

 

_9\. Jimmy for an unwanted admirer: yellow carnations meaning rejection._

Autumn rolls into winter, and the days get blessedly cooler. Sybil gives birth to baby Cara, and Thomas couldn't be more elated for her and Tom. He also starts going for a drink or two with Matthew and Mary quite regularly, still sees Sybil exactly the same amount, and manages to guide William through a slow but kind of successful attempt at courting Daisy.

“Aren’t they just the sweetest?” Mrs. Carson asks him as they watch the couple stroll past the shop, Daisy shy but smiling, William outright beaming as he gazes down at her.

“They are indeed,” Thomas intones, before Jimmy comes hurtling in.

“God! You’ve got to help me! She’s doing my head in!”

“Who?”

“This bird! She won’t leave me alone! Her name’s Rosie…”

“Another girl with a flower name? Where are you finding them all? What was the last one again? Oh that’s right, Iris… Whatever happened to old Iris?”

“Argh! You’ve got to help! And I’m not sending her roses, that’ll give the wrong impression for sure! Even I’m not that daft!”

“Are you sure?” That cheek earned him a punch on the arm from Jimmy, for which Mrs. Carson chides him for before taking her leave.

“Yellow carnations,” he tells Jimmy simply, and watches in amusement as his friend casts frantically about the shop.

“Which ones are those?!”

Thomas sighs patiently and goes to select them for him.

“And they will put her off?”

“No… when have you _ever_ given flowers to a girl and had her suddenly not like you!? They symbolise rejection. That’s all.”

“Fine, whatever,” Jimmy seems bloody agitated today, and Thomas isn't in the mood for it. He tells Jimmy this as he rings him up.

“So would you be if you had a crazy woman _obsessed_ with you!”

“Shouldn’t have led her on then!”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Jimmy squawks, taking the flowers with a scowl.

“OK. Whatever you say.”

He laughs Jimmy out of the shop as his friend stamps away, not sure why his foul mood about the girl puts Thomas in such a good one.

 

_10\. Matthew for Mary: red roses. Roses meaning honour; love; balance; devotion. Red roses specifically mean romantic love. (The snapdragons Thomas suggests instead mean grace, strength, deviousness)._

“Are you sure she won’t appreciate something a little more… unique or interesting?” Thomas is stalling, he knows, but he honestly likes Matthew and he’s come to kind of adore Mary, and this is just not right.

“But these are classic! Timeless!” Matthew insists as he brandishes his chosen bunch of red roses in Thomas’ face.

“Yeees… but…”

“She’ll love them,” Matthew cuts him off, now waving his bank card in his free hand. Thomas shoots one last look at the cluster burgundy snapdragons he’d been going to suggest, and makes his way dejectedly back to the counter.

Jimmy wanders in, shaking snow out of his hair, as Matthew makes his triumphant departure. Jimmy’s cheek is swollen and an impressive shade of red.

Twisting his mouth so he won’t laugh, Thomas sends him upstairs for some ice. Jimmy is clearly more than a little miserable – he stumps back down and slouches on Thomas’ seat, looking petulant and sulky.

“Shut up,” Jimmy grumbles, even though Thomas hadn’t said anything.

“Oh lighten up, gorgeous boy,” Thomas chuckles, the words slipping out before he can help himself. Rushing on for a distraction, he carries on “She didn’t take it well?”

“She’s a fucking psychopath,” Jimmy grunts, eyeing him carefully.

“You do seem to have a type.”

Jimmy grunts again, eyes fixed on him in an odd and unreadable way.

Thomas escapes from behind the counter under the guise of putting together a bouquet for Sybil and baby Cara, then cleaning tracked-in melting snow off the floor and fussing about with the placement of the bell above the door, all under the pretence of keeping busy until Jimmy decides to leave. They don’t speak another word until Jimmy grunts “bye” on his way out the door and into the cold winter air and Thomas mumbles an unconvincing “see ya” at his departing back.

 

_11\. Bouquet of red, pink and white tulips: Jimmy for a girl on Valentine’s Day. Tulips mean passionate love._

“I thought snapdragons,” Thomas is explaining to Mary as he jiggles little George in his arms, when Jimmy bursts through the door on Valentine’s Day. Things between them had been a little off for the past few weeks, and Thomas doesn’t know quite why. But here Jimmy is, looking at Thomas like he needs him, and God it feels good.

“Oh they would have been perfect!” Mary replies, looking scandalised. Say one thing for her, she never denies who she is.

“You would be a good Slytherin,” Thomas tells her, even as Jimmy hurtles up to the counter.

“Oh absolutely, I know. With you, of course.”

“Of course.”

“What are you two talking about?” Jimmy looks bewildered.

“What about him then, Gryffindor? I’ve been hearing he’s breaking all the local girls’ hearts… a Slytherin too?”

“Oh no, he’s a Hufflepuff, that’s for sure.”

“I’m a what? What did you call me?”

Mary leaves with a smirk, encouraging George to wave bye-bye over her shoulder. Thomas waves back, before finally turning to an impatient Jimmy.

“How can I help?”

“I need flowers.”

“Right, well.” He gestures to the shop at large. “I’m clean out of roses of all colours, for obvious reasons. Got some tulips though? Or camellias? Who are they for?”

“A girl,” he puffs out his chest in a way that would be adorable if the words didn’t chill Thomas to the bone.

“You’re taking a girl out tonight? I see,” Thomas leads the way over to the aforementioned tulips and wills his hands to stop shaking.

“We’re staying in, actually,” Jimmy says loudly over the rushing in Thomas’ ears. “She’s coming to mine for the night, if you know what I mean.”

“I can fathom, not that much of a reach,” Thomas grunts as he leans over to select his last bouquet of pink, red and white tulips and turns to Jimmy. “What do you think?”

“They’ll do,” is the casual response, and it doesn’t matter that Thomas can’t bear to look him in the eyes because Jimmy isn’t even facing him. He’s peering about, anywhere but at Thomas, a bored expression on his face. “All I care about is getting her kit off, to be honest. Those ought to be enough to achieve that.”

“Right,” Thomas replies, voice a little strangled. “Right then, well. Good luck with that.”

Jimmy pays and leaves without a backward glance and Thomas passes the evening feeling too nauseous to eat or sleep, his thoughts skittering. He’s staring blankly at the TV, which is playing some rom-com with Sandra Bullock, when Jimmy texts.

 _The flowers worked a treat, thanks_.

Thomas lunges for the bottle of merlot on his dining table, pouring himself too much into his favourite stemless wine glass before he deigns to text Jimmy back.

 _Glad to hear it, they usually do_.

The reply comes faster than he expected, so he takes a long drink to fortify himself before he looks at his phone again.

 _Worked so well that I got my rocks off and managed to get her in a cab and gone, all before midnight_.

 _Aren’t you the talented one_.

 _I am indeed, but she was practically gagging for it the second she walked in the door, it wasn’t a challenge at all_.

 _Congratulations_.

 _I’ve never fucked a girl who was already that wet for it before_  ,Thomas scrunches his nose up in distaste at that, finishes his glass and pours some more, head beginning to swim.

_Perhaps you should act all grandiose to someone else. Women, and tales of fucking them, don’t interest me._

_No, they don’t. But I do_.

Thomas’ blood runs cold and he freezes with his glass halfway to his mouth. He’s still sitting staring dumbly at his phone when Jimmy texts again.

_Don’t you want to hear about how good it felt?_

_Not in the slightest. There's nothing I would like less, in fact._

_Not even if I tell you I came so hard I thought I’d go cross eyed. I haven’t come that hard in months._

_Stop._

He needs to end this, end this conversation, end his stupid obsession with this arrogant boy, just end everything between them right now and never see him again. Move away, make a fresh start, somewhere new where he would never see this beautiful, heartbreaking boy again.

_You know what I’m talking about, right? You don’t fuck girls but do you fuck guys? You know what I mean about how good it feels?_

_Curious, are we? I top, if that’s what you want to know. I haven’t been on the receiving end in a long time._

_I'm curious about you. You. What you do in bed. How you do it._

He shouldn’t answer. He should put his phone down and pretend this conversation never happened. But he couldn’t. _I like being on top. I like being in command. I like stretching my lover open with my fingers and my tongue, getting him ready for me_.

_Oh fuck._

/

 _And I love the taking, the first time you slide in, you know how it is? You've just done it yourself, haven't you?_ Did Jimmy honestly think he was going to win this? Thomas had won the second Jimmy had picked up his phone and texted him. He’d won months ago, years ago; truth be told he won every time Jimmy couldn’t seem to look away from him, no matter how hard he tried. _I love that pressure, that resistance, the tight warmth wrapping around me_.

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck, I hate you, I think I really fucking hate you_.

 _Why’s that?_ He grunts as he finally undoes his fly and frees himself, wrapping his hand around his straining, desperate cock. _Because you’re liking this as much as I am? You ought to remember who started it, and you ought to grow up and accept why_.

Jimmy stays silent, and Thomas’ mind fills with the possibilities of why, even as he pumps himself, knowing it won’t take long. He presses his head back into the couch and doesn’t bother to be quiet when he comes, calling Jimmy’s name.

Panting, he gropes for his phone again, types out a victorious _Don’t start what you can’t finish, especially not with me_ and hits send with vicious pleasure, then shucks off his jeans and staggers to bed to fall into a surprisingly content sleep.

 

_12\. Jimmy for his Mum: irises meaning royalty; wisdom; respect._

Jimmy avoids him for days afterwards, doesn’t make even one appearance on the street. Feeling a curious mix between elated and distraught, Thomas even ventures to the pub one night, a little cautious to have to come on to Jimmy’s turf, but missing him too much to stay away. Only it was Ivy he found behind the bar.

“Where’s Jimmy?”

“Been off sick all week, so he’s at home, I imagine,” Ivy mutters as she struggles to pull a pint lever.

Thomas rushes off without a backward glance, shivering absently and burrowing his nose in his coat collar when he gets back out into the cold air.

There’s no answer when he knocks on Jimmy’s door, and the curtains are drawn, but the living room light is on.

“Jimmy!” he calls, voice cracking a little. “Jimmy. It’s me.”

Still nothing. He sighs and touches the door gently, brushing his fingertip over the wood.

“I wanted to apologise. What happened… shouldn’t have happened. I’d been drinking and… it wasn’t fair. So. I’m sorry.”

No answer, no footsteps, nothing, so he leaves it at that and walks home, frozen to the bone.

*

“Thomas! Help!” Thomas’ head lifts at the sound of that voice, half out of habit, and half out of disbelief. There was Jimmy, in his doorway, hesitating only a moment before coming to the counter. It was mid-afternoon on Mother’s Day, so Thomas’ entire store was practically empty of stock, with only a few sad bouquets scattered about here and there.

“Here.” He was dropping down behind the counter and popping back up with a safely sequestered away bouquet of irises before Jimmy was even halfway across the room. “I put these aside for you. Knew you’d need saving.”

“God, thank you, thank you!” He looks so relieved that Thomas can’t help but laugh, even as Jimmy rounds the counter, plucks the bouquet from his hands and kisses him all in one smooth motion.

Thomas gasps, but his heart overrules his shock quick enough, allowing his hands to fly up and grip at Jimmy’s face, angling him better. Jimmy groans, drops the flowers and surges forward, one hand finding Thomas’ hip, the other gripping his hair as their kiss deepens and deepens, bodies pressing together like gravity.

Thomas pulls back for a breath before he lets his mouth drop to Jimmy’s neck and the whole length of it seems to be a sweet spot because he cries out the second Thomas starts kissing him there, going a little limp in his arms even as he arches up helplessly. He whimpers Thomas’ name and it lingers in the air around them like a prayer.

“Oh darling, finally, _finally_ ,” Thomas mumbles in his ear, hoisting him up on to the counter to save the flowers being crushed under their feet – he might have lost a sale by hiding them away today so he isn’t going to let them get damaged now – and Jimmy whines and captures his mouth again, legs winding around his waist to hold their bodies together.

Thomas is in heaven, in hell, because this is glorious, wonderful, everything he’s lain awake praying for since he first laid eyes on Jimmy all those years ago, but they’re in his _shop_ for crying out loud, in broad daylight, the door is still unlocked and worst of all there are too many layers of clothes separating their skin.

But he can’t bear to pull away for a second, not with Jimmy’s sweet cries of delight filling his ears as Thomas licks stripes from his collarbone up to his jaw, not when those cries turn garbled and the frantic rolling of their hips gets faster when he lets his tongue chase the fluttering pulse in his neck.

Sharp rapping on the glass has them springing apart – well, it does Thomas, at least. Jimmy sort of just flails about on the counter looking a wreck as they both turn to the window.

Mrs. Carson is standing there, mouth a thin line of disapproval, knuckles still resting on the glass.

“Thomas Barrow! You get this shop shut and get yourselves upstairs! You can’t be carrying on like that in broad daylight; the children will be passing by any minute from school, honestly! No one needs to be party to you two engaging in that sort of conduct in the middle of the high street!”

They gape at her like fish out of water, then Jimmy is whispering, “Oh god oh god _oh god_!” and rolling off the counter, eyes horrified, looking at Thomas like he’s some sort of three-headed alien oozing slime.

“Jimmy, Jimmy stop, wait, love!”

But with one last horrified look at Thomas, lip curling in disgust, Jimmy’s hissing, “ _Stay the fuck away from me!_ ” and bolting out the door.

“I… wait… you get back here! _James_!” Mrs Carson cries. “That wasn’t what I meant to happen! Oh, Thomas!”

She rushes in as he sinks to the floor behind his counter, breathing going shallow and a cold sweat breaking over him as his world starts coming apart at the seams.

“Oh Thomas, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for that to happen! I didn’t mean to scare him off!”

“Call Sybil,” he tells her as he wheezes for breath and closes his eyes, doing anything he can to ward off the impending panic attack.

She must do but he has no memory of it, loses all sense of time, can’t think of anything but the terror on Jimmy’s face, his disgust, the regret in his eyes, until Sybil bursts through the door with Cara strapped to her chest and Tom in her wake with Sybbie in his arms.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carson, I’ve got him,” his friend insists, crouching down next to them and letting Thomas reach for her to helplessly bury his face in her neck. He breathes in the scent of the baby’s head and tries not to scream.

“I’m so sorry… it was James… I never meant to cause him this sort of trouble!”

“It’s alright, Mrs. Carson,” Tom says firmly somewhere above them, helping her to her feet. “We’ve got him now.” He sees her to the door and then he’s back, pulling on Thomas’ arm to get him up, Sybbie 'helping' by tugging at his trouser leg.

“Come on, come on now Thomas, come on now, up the stairs…” Sybil locks up the shop while her husband coaxes Thomas upstairs. “Just look at me now, Thomas, follow us, come on, follow Sybbie, and up the stairs we go…”

Eventually, somehow, Thomas is settled on his couch looking down at little Cara in his lap, Sybbie tucked up to his side patting at his arm. His breathing evens out as Tom takes a seat next to him and wraps a not unwelcome arm around his shoulders, while Sybil paces about, agitated.

“Calm down, love,” Tom tries, but she’s irate.

“I’ll kill him,” she snaps back. “I’ll go down to that bloody bar and rip his face off with my teeth!”

“That won’t help Thomas right now, will it?”

Sybil drops down onto the coffee table and gazes at him, her blue eyes full of misery.

“I’m OK now,” Thomas lies. “I’ll be OK.”

She shakes her head angrily. “This is utter bollocks! He’s been leading you on for months, for years! Now he does _this_ …”

“Bollocks!” Sybbie echoes delightedly, to no one’s surprise, though her father tries weakly to tell her to never say that word again.

“No. No he didn’t lead me on,” Thomas mumbles, automatically rocking Cara in his arms when she begins to fuss. “It was… just madness, before. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t have to mean it.”

Sybil slaps her thighs in frustration, and, overwhelmingly, Thomas just wants to be alone. He loves her, needed her, was grateful she’d come, and brought more people he loved with her. But now he wanted space.

Thankfully, Tom was proving his worth.

“Let’s leave Thomas alone now, love.”

“I’m not _leaving_ him now! Not after what…” she breaks off and Tom sucks in his breath and he doesn’t blame them. He thinks it might be harder for them than it is for him, those memories of the bathtub and the blood.

“That won’t happen,” he says gently, reaching to touch her cheek. “I’m not going to allow that to happen. It was a moment of weakness, with Jimmy, before. It was a mistake. That’s all. He’s just a silly boy and I let myself get too attached to someone who could never want me.”

“He _kissed_ you!”

“It was a mistake,” Thomas insists again, and Tom pats his shoulder and stands, takes the babies back in one arm each and heads for the stairs, leaving Sybil no choice but to follow.

He embraces all four of them in turn at the shop door, letting Sybil kiss his cheek and sigh into his hair.

“I love you,” she tells him, her voice thick.

“I love you too,” he mumbles back, meaning it with every fibre of his being.

He shuts up shop for the remainder of the afternoon, puts himself to bed even though the sun is still up and cries.

 

_13\. Jimmy for Thomas: Petunias in shades of purple meaning anger; resentment; ‘being with you is soothing.’ Purple specifically means enchantment; fantasy; mystery._

To his horror, Jimmy is through the door at 9 a.m. two days later, when Thomas finally has the strength to get out of bed and re-open his business. Thomas can barely bring himself to look at him, but when he finally does he sees Jimmy looks even worse than he does, eyes haunted and exhausted, hair a mess, skin sallow.

“I see Tom managed to restrain Sybil after all. She wanted to rip your balls off.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him,” Jimmy croaks back, before he turns away and starts perusing the stock Thomas has only just got in to replace the Mother’s Day purge.

He certainly seems to be searching for something in particular, casting about the room with a creased brow, waving aside Thomas’ weak attempt to discern what he wants, why he's come here at all.

When he sees the cluster of petunias tucked between the freesias and the calla lilies he perks up and darts over to them. Thomas watches, perplexed, as he sets about carefully plucking all the various shades of purple he can find from the little group before triumphantly making his way to the counter. Thomas eyes the selection, eyes sliding from a faint lilac petunia with a deep purple centre to one shockingly violet, to another so dark it’s almost black.

When he looks up at Jimmy again, Jimmy holds them out and says quietly, “These are for you.”

“Oh?”

“Because I think I love you. And I hate it. And I’m scared. It scares me so much I could go out of my mind. And I’ve tried to fight and resist and just _not_ for so long, so so long. But I’m so tired. All I want is to rest. With you. I can’t keep away from you. I want… to give in, and try this and have it work, _make_ it work, because I don’t think I could bear it if it doesn’t.”

“Oh, Jimmy…”

“I tried to keep away. I still try sometimes, every now and then, to go a day without you, but I can’t. It’s like nothing is right until I’m around you, everything feels temporary, like all of me is just waiting until I can spend a moment with you, see you. And then I tried sometimes to drive you away, to push you and hurt you, to make you hate me, but all I ever did was hate myself. And I tried to be your friend. But we were never just friends, were we? We never were.”

He starts to come slowly around the side of the counter, and Thomas’ heart is hammering in his throat. He can taste the blood. He reaches for the flowers, lets his fingers brush over Jimmy’s hand, and revels in his little gasp for breath. He takes them and lays them down gently on the counter so that there’s nothing between them but air, and just one step needed to close the gap.

He waits until Jimmy looks him in the eye to say, “If you run again I don’t think I’ll be OK. If you run away again I think I’d have to follow. I don’t want to force you into anything. If you’re not sure, leave now. Run while you still can.”

“No. No, that won’t be happening. I’m not strong enough to pretend I want to walk away from you anymore.”

It’s surprisingly gentle when they first kiss, though it gets desperate quickly, until it’s intense and fierce and them. After minutes, hours, days of panting for breath between hungry, frantic kisses, Thomas pulls his hands out from up Jimmy’s shirt and breaks away.

“Get upstairs, let me lock up.”

They part for the few agonisingly slow moments it seems to take Thomas to turn the lock, bolt the doors and flip the open sign around. He takes the stairs two at a time, following the trail of Jimmy’s clothes. He’s waiting on the bed, half-hard and trembling, scrambling to pull Thomas down on top of him at the first opportunity. Thomas tries to tell him they don’t have to, but Jimmy just snarls and presses his body up against him and Thomas’ mumbling turns to a groan of delight as he settles between Jimmy’s spread legs, and feels the hard heat of his cock trapped between them.

He wants to worship the boy the way he deserves, take his time and be gentle, but they’re both half mad with lust gone ignored and starved for so long. He kisses and bites his way down Jimmy’s body instead, mumbling his name like a litany, focusing on nipples and hip bones and every patch of skin that makes Jimmy gasp and raise his hips. When he finally takes that sweet, hard cock in his mouth Jimmy moans, and it isn’t long, only a little while of sucking and licking and stroking, before Jimmy’s petting his hair and coming, flooding his mouth. Thomas swallows it down easily, sitting back to smirk at the blissed out expression of the blond boy who looks so at home in his bed.

“Better than your conquest on Valentine’s Day?”

Jimmy’s cock twitches and he throws an arm over his reddening face. “Don’t remind me of Valentine’s Day. Never come so hard in my life.” “You mean with your bird? Yeah, you said,” Thomas chuckles, thinking of ways to top that.

“No… I mean you. Your texts. Fucking hot,” Jimmy grits out, sitting up to kiss him, reaching for his belt. Thomas lets him, lets him kiss him breathless and strip him, pin him to the bed. He lays his head on Thomas’ chest and they watch together as Jimmy takes him in his spit-wet hand and strokes. Thomas comes the same way he always does, pressing his head back hard into his pillow and calling Jimmy’s name to the high heavens.

They shower together after, kissing absently under the spray, though Thomas stays in a bit longer. When he gets out, drying himself idly, and wanders into the living room he finds his petunias in a vase on the dining table.

He smirks at Jimmy who’s taken himself back to bed, and is smiling sleepily at him from his nest of blankets.

“How romantic.”

“I thought so,” is the smug response, as Jimmy holds out his arms to him. Thomas throws his towel on the floor and doesn’t need to be asked twice. He slides under the blankets and pulls Jimmy to his chest, their mouths brushing together again, happily.


End file.
